


at the crossroads

by frostbitten_cheeks



Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: 2020-2021, Dan Howell Is No Longer A Youtuber, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-04
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:48:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22563511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostbitten_cheeks/pseuds/frostbitten_cheeks
Summary: Dan's fingertips are now stained with ink more often than not. He commits to watching the news every evening, scribbles down notes on the good days and throws Haribo gummies at the television on the bad.Dan becomes a screenwriter, and Phil watches him throughout.
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Comments: 9
Kudos: 48





	at the crossroads

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. i was picturing a political satire programme; something funny and entertaining but with very sharp edges towards society and current affairs. 
> 
> 2\. on a completely unrelated note, i noticed i don’t write dan and phil's affection in romantic acts, but mostly in _being_. their physical love language is fascinating to me, but i like challenges, and so this was born.

Dan's first few weeks at the new job are rough. He comes home at half nine, sometimes later, and his curls fall messily on his forehead when he collapses on the sofa. Most days Phil puts down whatever he's doing (answering business emails, editing a video, feeding Norman) to sit by his side, and Dan drags himself up to lay his head on Phil's thigh, tilts it back in invitation.

Phil smiles, sometimes voices a goodnatured joke; he reaches his hand into Dan's hair and twists his fingers in it, though, always. He doesn't ask.

Dan says, most days, unprompted: ""m tired." Some days, he'll say: "They shot some parts that I wrote today, it was nice." Others, he'll say: "I talked to Jody about the thing we talked about yesterday," or, "I was _so_ productive today, you'd be _shook,_ " or, "I don't know if I'm cut out for this, Phil, it's really fucking hard."

Today, his dimple is exceptionally deep and Phil runs a finger from a loose curl to the crate in Dan's cheek, and Dan breathes, says: "I didn't remember how wearing it is to work with people who aren't, like, just you."

Phil's mouth tugs upwards, unbidden, his finger poking at Dan's face experimentally. "What do you mean? We've been working with teams of people for the last few years, it hasn't only been us."

Dan's face is more relaxed like this, angled up at Phil like a sunflower. There's something about him that's younger these days, despite the worry and hardwork curved into the lines at his skin, and Phil likes the excuse to touch it, likes relearning Dan's face every day.

"Work creatively, I mean," Dan says, his eyes fluttering closed. "We worked with management and crew but the output was just -- us. Now, it's like. Bethany and I need to rework some script and I turn to her and she doesn't immediately get what I'm thinking and I'm like. Oh, sorry, you're not Phil."

"So it's harder?" Phil asks, moves his fingers to touch Dan's eyelashes, gets a ghostly laughter for it. 

Dan's smile widens slightly. The crate is deeper than ever. "It's always harder without you, idiot."

  
  
  


.

  
  
  
  


Dan begins weaving his new dreams carefully, tentatively, like Phil when he's faced with the ocean. He spends the first few months after coming out slowly drawing back from his different social platforms and is left, standing barefoot, in front of the great abyss. 

Phil tells him as much, and Dan snorts his laughter, asks, "So what, the fear of infinite possibilities is like the magnitude of the sea? Great metaphor, Phil, that weird brain of yours finally ran out of ideas," but his eyes crease at the corners with amusement, and he leans his shoulder heavily against Phil's.

Following the summer of 2019, Dan signs up and drops out of a few online uni courses. He tries learning Japanese for about three weeks in September, lets it go by the time they land in Tokyo. He spends a week reviewing vegan products from the store following his Christmas with Adrian, and by February, he gets really into alternative poetry, which he claims is a result of his winter blues.

"I like that you're refinding yourself," Phil tells him absently at the end of March, while he's shaving and Dan's desperately plucking at a ukulele on the bed, completely tunelessly.

But Dan's getting restless. He paces the floors of the flat every few days, occupied with a new project, and Phil can tell his brain isn't busy enough, can see all that energy bouncing back off the walls and seeking an outlet it's unable to find.

On the last Wednesday in April, a guy from the BBC writers' retreat Dan did the year before calls him up, says he's got something lined up that he thinks Dan might like. 

Dan starts the new job in July, and doesn't stop.

  
  
  


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"Isn't it weird," Phil asks many months later, peaking over Dan's shoulder at pages of scenes and dialogues spread over their table, "to write again but not be the one to act it out?"

Dan thinks it over, twirls a pen between his fingers. He says, after some thought, "It's the same rush of birthing something but without the stressful feeling of presenting it yourself. It's -- better."

Phil doesn't know if he understands, doesn't think he'll ever feel the same as Dan about facing a camera, sinking under the weight of an invisible overwhelming audience. He leans his head down, rests his cheek against Dan's head. "You don't miss it, at all? Being the one at front and centre?"

Dan smiles something secret. "Honestly, I think that's what I was tired of the most."

  
  
  


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Dan begins working in the room while Phil's filming videos, editing his writing in the background. The first few times this happens Phil's eyes inevitably shift sideways, looking at Dan as he speaks, but after a while the sound of steady typing becomes relaxing, he finds himself more comfortable in front of the lense.

He leaves in post-edit one short clip of himself laughing while looking off-camera, though, for no reason at all. YouTube hasn't seen Dan in a year and the lines are flexible, they bend willingly beneath Phil’s hands.

There's this one time when Phil films an outro for a book review video and Dan looks up at him while Phil's waving goodbye at the camera. He gets up from the armchair across the room very suddenly, leaves his laptop on the desk, and settles on Phil's lap determinedly.

Phil yelps, because of course he does, but he also grabs Dan's back to steady them and lets Dan nose at his jaw without protest.

"You're more affectionate lately," he says, doesn't say _you're happier._ Dan's fingers are petting his cheeks and he kisses the knuckles softly, barely there.

Dan hums. "I like working to the sound of your voice. Don't know why, for some reason you creating something inspires me to create as well."

It's in no way a reply to Phil's comment. He raises his eyebrows at that and bumps his forehead against Dan's nose, waiting. Dan huffs and says, "Alright, bastard, you've got evening stubble and it looked delicious from over there. Happy now?"

Phil is. He kisses Dan heartily, pushes both of them out of the chair because the camera is still running and this will be a bitch to edit, and also because Dan is almost two meters of solid weight and his thighs are _killing_ him, there's a reason they don't do this. Phil turns off the camera and Dan collects his things and they kiss by the door again, plush and sweet.

Phil doesn't say _you're happier_ , because they've learned long ago that it's bad for Dan's mental health. But he does keep track of the small things that happen more frequently: fingers resting on the back of his neck, lips at his temple, Dan's feet against his in the mornings. He does know Dan better than anyone: when Dan's happy, he radiates his happiness in physical forms, like his skin's enveloping sunbeams.

He does notice the most important thing: when they kiss, nowadays, they break away smiling more often than not.

  
  
  


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At a holiday party that Dan’s boss, Mariyam, insists on throwing, Phil sees the studios for the first time. They’ve got high ceilings and a system of twisted corridors that serve as both office space and dressing rooms, and they’re ugly in that very industrial way that Dan could either love or hate, no in-between. Phil shakes hands and makes small-talk and tries to remember names, but most importantly -- he gets to see Dan’s office.

"I have an office," Dan whispers with a little reverence. His eyes glint under the hallway lights and Phil feels overly sentimental all of a sudden, tugs on Dan's Santa hat rather than pressing a kiss to Derrick. "I don't think I envisioned myself in an office since uni."

The room is small, mostly made of a wooden desk and three chairs. Dan obviously wasn't given much choice about the decor, but there are pieces of him strewn around; his scarf hanging behind the door, his notepads piled up on the desk, one of Wirrow's paintings nailed to the wall.

There's also a framed picture of the two of them, tilted by Dan's computer just so. It's a professionally taken one from the II tour, and it's formal enough to fit into the new boundaries of their lives despite the very clear message in its placing there. Phil smiles privately when he sees it, types a note into his phone reminding himself to buy Dan little decorations for this space, squeezes Dan’s hand simply because he can.

(Maybe not as importantly, but close:

Mariyam smiles when they meet, warm and familiar. Wes shakes Phil’s hand with both of his, firm. Bethany, when she sees him, stands on the tips of her toes like she just can’t help it and says, “Oh, you’re Phil! I’ve been hearing so much about you, it’s bloody nice to know a face,” and she grins at Dan like it’s no big deal.

Phil, who spent the last decade a part of a two-piece set, who never went anywhere Dan’s people weren’t also his own, pauses, thinks, smiles slowly. He tells her, “Likewise, honestly, you see him more than me!”, and doesn’t tell her it is a big deal, and doesn’t tell her he’s never been a public plus-one before, and doesn’t tell her no one’s ever known him as Dan’s and nothing else. He doesn’t tell her of all the intricate ways the professional picture by Dan’s computer fits into the boundaries of their lives and how his being here, like this, does too.)  
  


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Dan's fingertips are now stained with ink more often than not. He commits to watching the news every evening, scribbles down notes on the good days and throws Haribo gummies at the television on the bad. Phil complains about the shows they haven't finished and Dan hushes him, distracted, ends the night ranting for fifteen minutes about Trump's scandal of the week.

Dan brings his work into their home like he's always brought pieces of him: loud, passionate, a part of who he is. The same way Phil knows who won Formula One last year, or hums FKA twigs in the shower, or watches his pronouns before someone's properly introduced themselves. Phil, now, hears Jake Pugh’s name on the radio and giggles, thinks of Gavin's skit and Dan's running commentary. He watches television and can't help but envision the many dozens of people behind every episode, every scene, every take.

Dan comes home one day, toes off his shoes by the door and grabs Phil’s face between his big hands before Phil can even say hi. He blinks up at Dan and Dan blinks down at him and then he says, like he’s thinking about it really meticulously, “Phil Lester, I think I got unfairly lucky too many times in my short fucking life. Will you please pinch me?”

Phil, smile threatening to rip his face apart, does.

  
  
  


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In March, Phil boards the plane to Orlando by himself for the first time. 

It’s not his first convention alone. The crowds are the same and the heat is the same and the thousand pictures with his arms around fans are, too. He does a panel about storytelling and teases his newest project, divulges just enough. Still, at nightfall his hotel room is just this side of too quiet, and the parties are by now tiring, and it never stops being a little strange, even two years in.

People ask about Dan. The subscribers, too, they'd probably never truly stop, bur their friends as well. Phil says, a hundred times, _he's good_ , or, sometimes, _left him to babysit our fish,_ or, to people they especially like, _he's really happy with the BBC, it's going great._ By the second night his mouth aches with repeating the same words again and again but his smile never dims and his sincerity never falters.

They huddle in the hotel bar downstairs, a gathering of people disillusioned by loud music and networking hookups. Jack buys him a drink and joins his conversation with Louise, and they discuss Brooklyn Nine Nine and Floridian takeout places and domestic struggles. Phil says, “Dan even tried talking the foxes away, it was hilarious,” and Jack tips his head. He asks, “So how is Dan?”, and Phil, for the first time, pauses before he answers.

“The show’s really taken off, so he’s super busy, but it’s cool, you know? That he loves it. I don’t think he expected a fit like that, but it’s like, he really found himself there.”

Louise smiles toothily, raises her beer at him, and strands of hair flop into Jack’s face when he nods. “Man, that’s awesome. So this is it, then? I take it he’s not gonna make a surprise return to us.”

Dan still goes over Phil’s videos before posting, most days, checks for editing mistakes. His camerawork is still shaky in Phil’s stupider skits, his laughter still shrieks sometimes in the background. But his coming out video, one and a half years old, is still the last on his feed.

“No,” Phil says, buries his smile in his drink. “No, I reckon that this part is over.”

  
  
  


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They watch the season finale of the show at PJ's house. PJ buys the seaweed and Phil brings the wine bottle and Sophie chokes on it, later, due to a terrific string of dialogue. Dan cackles and says, proudly, "Bethany wrote that shit," as PJ pats Sophie's back, snickering all the while.

The episode ends with an exceptionally satiric original song that Dan starts humming ten minutes before it comes on. It’s annoyingly catchy, and Phil films Dan singing it while it plays in the background, Sophie laughing maniacally. 

The video goes on his YouTube story at one in the morning. A lot of people probably message him about it; somewhere out there on the internet, a meme about Dan returning to YouTube probably starts. Here, by Phil’s side, Dan’s face is wrinkled at his laugh lines and his knee is bent over Phil’s and Phil, the same as he ever did, doesn’t leave room for anything else.

  
  
  


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Dan makes casual fun of himself at Christmas, softens the hard edges with humor. He says he's boring, now, isn't he, a regular block with an office job, and Kath grins and Phil kicks him and Martyn says, _welcome aboard, mate._

Dan has an office job, now. He buys BPA-free containers to pack lunch in, he has to give notice to take a day off, he wakes up at seven thirty sharp. He comes home boneless, some nights, tells Phil they got yelled at by the network executive who threatened to cut their slot. He doesn't fall asleep, on others, too bothered with wars happening overseas or Johnson's proposal for the transport budget.

But Phil has only ever seen Dan searching. Eighteen and searching for a direction; twenty and searching for stability; twenty-two and searching for self-acceptance; twenty-four and searching for perfection.

Dan comes back from his office job sated. Dan shows Phil segments he wrote about global warming and his laughter spills across the carpet, no bitten nails or quivering self-confidence. Dan's mum introduces them to a friend of hers at her birthday celebration and he says, "Yeah, I write for the BBC now," and his shoulders are straight, he takes questions in stride.

Dan is twenty-nine and he has an office job. His twitter following never declines but doesn't increase, either, and he doesn't take his channel down, doesn't display shame.

At the very beginning of the new year, Phil writes resolutions with his feet in Dan's lap, Dan's laptop on Phil's knees. Phil asks, distractedly, "Think I can put down forever home as a 2021 resolution?", and Dan asks, "Yes or no to putting _Basically I'm Gay_ in my resume?"

Phil looks up. Dan's still frowning at the screen, backtracking. Phil says, "Wait, what," and the tip of his pen touches his chin accidentally.

Dan lifts his eyes, crinkling at the sight of the black mark on Phil's face. He says, warmly, "Wow, Phil, didn't know we're bringing PINOF back," and Phil says, "Shut up," and then, also, "what resume?"

On the first week of the new year, Dan writes a real, grown-up resume, and he includes _Basically I'm Gay_. Phil looks at the page, blinking, and asks if it's a blanket coming out statement for future employers. Dan laughs high enough to break glass and says, _no, it's proper writing, I'm proud of it, it shows diversity._

Phil thinks that maybe there was always a part of him worried that this is Dan's conformation to society; an office job that keeps his head low, keeps him out of the spotlight and out of harm. Phil thinks that, maybe, he was worried Dan will turn thirty or forty or fifty and would say, lightly, _god, that cringe internet phase, yeah, it's so embarrassing,_ and will keep the sunbeam under his skin covered with make-believe normality forever. 

Phil knows, now, that Dan is twenty-nine and he found something, and maybe not everything, but something, and his growth is a linear, and it's the most content he's ever been.

  
  
  


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In May, three and a half weeks before Dan's thirtieth birthday, the show wins the BAFTA for Best Comedy.

They enter as a production team, because Mariyam refuses to narrow it down to four names. She goes on the stage with Jody and Wes and the three of them lift the award high, a thousand cameras flashing at it. They deliver a witty speech, Phil knows, he's giggling stupidly, but his eyes never stray from their row of seats in the audience.

Later: Dan will spin in his silver suit under the afterparty's lights, drunk off champagne and adrenaline, and Phil will Instagram it with too many exclamation points. Later: Gavin will run through the room with his tie undone and the BAFTA mask lifted like a football trophy, and everyone will reach out to touch it in passing; Dan's eyes will flicker straight to Phil's as his fingers will graze the gold, and his beam will be wide enough to ache. Later: Phil will kiss him in the cab back home, against the doorway, in bed, and tell him he's proud in a rare display of candid joy. They will both think of the Sony Golden Headphones, of sleeping on Grimmy's sofa, will laugh too hard to kiss any more.

But now:

In the audience, Bethany clutches Dan's sleeve, shouting at the top of her lungs, and they both jump to their feet before the announcement is even finished. Dan's hand finds Phil's shoulder before he pulls it back to start clapping hard enough to crack the skin of his palms, and Phil feels too small for the feelings in his body, feels ready to burst.

Dan smiles, exhilarated, says, "Fucking hell," his cheeks flushed rosy pink, and Phil thinks that everything must have fallen right according to a grand plan for them to be here, now, exactly like this. 

  
  
  


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They don't get to keep the trophy. Dan passes by it every morning during his coffee breaks, boastfully displayed in a glass case, and some days he texts a pic of himself with it to Phil, just because. 

Mariyam makes everybody on the crew small plastic replicas of the mask instead. The gold doesn't shine as bright, and there's no inscription on the bottom, but Phil still takes it straight out of Dan's hands and puts it on top of the fireplace resolutely. 

Dan calls him ostentatious. Phil, very happily, does not care.


End file.
